Broke

Today’s prompt was to use the word Broke – I may have something more later, but right now this is all I’ve got.

Broke(n)

We were poor for many years,
you and me.
Babies came along
and made three,
four, five.

We did what we could,
we managed.
Eventually, all your
schooling paid off.
You got raise after raise,
the kind of praise
I never heard at home
with the kids.

And that was when
all my suspicions
proved true:
You weren’t.
True, that is.

So when we left,
the kids and I,
we found a new life
of poverty
and struggle.
It is amazing what it is possible
to juggle with so little help
from back east where you
and your young wife lived.

But, strangely, when I look back
at the time that’s flown, the hard work
to make something of myself
and raise those kids
alone.
Long days, longer nights
often tired to the bone.
I find they are the best years
of my life.

And you missed them.
And I pity you.

 

Instructional

Today’s prompt was to write an instructional poem. This is already day 8 of the April Poem-a-Day challenge. This gets more fun each year. ^_^

How to Raise a Rebel

Dance.
Show up.
Have pets.
Give hugs.
Learn CPR.
Laugh. A lot.
Lead by example.
Unconditional love.
Be their superhero.
Show her museums.
Take them on vacation.
Never talk in baby-talk.
Make him earn that car.
Watch them in the water.
Make her think for herself.
Take time for yourself, too.
Teach him to follow recipes.
Challenge his belief system.
Don’t say, “Because I said so.”
Let her be sad when she’s sad.
Make time for one-on-one time.
Show them how to forgive freely.
Teach him to do his own laundry.
Don’t let her show too much skin.
Punish appropriately to the crime.
Let her pick the music sometimes.
Don’t give him everything he wants.
Give him chores; make him do them.
Make him sign up for teams or clubs.
Hold her when she has a broken heart.
Be willing to compromise occasionally.
Give her extra money if she works for it.
Give an allowance, not based on chores.
They need reasons for things. Give them.
Let him choose his own clothes, crazy or not.
Yes, your teenager has to go on vacation, too.
Never allow the word “hate” to be flung about.
Let them choose their own drinks at McDonalds.
Stand up for him to his teachers, but be realistic.
Have meals together every day, and talk to them.
Know who their friends are. Invite them to dinner.
Listen when they’re talking. It could be important.
Teach them to know what they want and how to get it.
Talk about your past; they need to know you have one.
When you criticize people, they learn to be critical too.
Talk about their future; they need to know they have one.
If you pay her cell phone bill, she has to answer your calls.
Teach her to change her own tire and jump start her battery.
They may complain, but secretly, they want you to be strict.
Take them to the funeral; they need to know that life is finite.
Even if you do everything right, sometimes you fail. Forgive yourself.

Plus

The prompt was to write a “Plus” poem and I only barely had time to add to my list, busy day.

It’s a Wonderful Life

Addition

I’ve always loved addition
one and one make two.
And when they have fruition
the two start to accrue.

A lot of small additions
if things work as they might
and in the right conditions
the future’s looking bright.

Eventually addition,
as time is wont to pass,
turns into an attrition
as kids grow up en masse.

And so, no more addition
For a little while at least,
Until pairing-up ambition
make the numbers soon increase.

I’ve always loved addition
one and one make two.
Continue that tradition,
And you’ve got a family zoo.

Last

This is the last prompt before the mania of the April Poem-a-Day challenge begins. ^_^ Here is my offering;

Last

Aged, infirm, she was half-crippled with
arthritis. Still, her blue eyes were sharp.
She glowed as brightly as the one hun
-dred candles on her lit birthday cake.
(She was half-lit herself, according
to her nephew, a ripe eighty-nine,
himself.) She mused aloud about the
past, her siblings, all long gone now. We
all bent in eagerly to hear her
words, softly whispered, but with such imp
-ish good humor: “They always wanted
to go first, we drew broom straws to see
which had to be ‘it’ and who had to
go last on the pony.” She pauses,
“I didn’t know I’d drawn the short straw
this time; now they’ve all gone before me.”

Animal

Today’s prompt, Animal, wanted me to go only one direction, and so, reluctantly, I went there. This is not my life, but let us say I have brushed shoulders with this life…

Fist Mark by zaldy icaonapo

Animal

He is out of control.
He screams,
berates,
never hesitates,
even when he’s wrong,
it doesn’t matter
(Get me my belt.)
what they’ve done
(There are spots on these dishes!!)
or what he thinks
(Who didn’t flush the toilet?!?!)
they’ve done.
(Why can’t I have any peace?!?!)

He acts like he has
power
over them,
mental, physical,
emotional.

He is strong and threatening
and his power seems real;
their bruises prove his strength.

They believe it, they are weak,
but sometimes there is a breaking point
even for the meek.

Finally one day,
when he returns home
it is to an empty house:
no wife
no kids
no dog, even.

They are gone
and he rages.

Interstate flight
to far-flung-family
he does not know them
(never cared to know)
distant cousins of hers.
They are welcome
and they begin again.

It’s not too late to heal from
the damage the animal has done.

That Time of Year

Saguaro in the Snow

I may or may not have been noticeably absent for a few weeks, mostly getting myself together after a long November and a hectic December. But it is Christmas Eve and though to me the season is more about family and friends more than about any religion in particular, I wanted to wish you all a Joyeux Noël!

Or, if you prefer, a lovely winter break.

I have lately found I haven’t really been myself for a long time. Once my youngest son moved out, I think I sank into a little depression, not a serious, treatable depression, no worries. I am such an optimist, life always has savor and I generally put a positive spin on things and have more ups than downs. No, what I mean is that I have felt “normal,” but having two of my three sons back at home at the same time has brought me such joy, I realize my new normal was a little flat.

The truth is, joy is family and having family around. Whatever religion you believe in, or even if you don’t believe in any religion at all, joy is family, and that special bond that only you few share in an indifferent world.

Enjoy your family, if you have them. And enjoy my wishes for a wonderful New Year.

It’s a Wonderful Life

 

Deep – November PaD, day 23

The prompt today is “Deep,” and just in time. Today is the day I make Thanksgiving dinner, rather than Thursday, And yesterday I was depressed all day, silly, I know, but tradition is a big part of me, I suppose, more than I really knew. I had hoped to bring my son (stationed in southern Arizona with the Army) up to spend the holiday with the family, and got the news that he was unable to. Very sad. Decided to stick to the Friday dinner idea to insure the other son and daughter-in-law would be able to come to dinner, as well as one of their friends.

I pulled myself out of my depression by last evening, and bounced out of bed today to start pie, rolls, etc., so all will be ready for dinner at 7:30 p.m.  But that gloom was the beginning of the idea of the Double Fibonacci poem that follows:

Bartola by Ardenrey

Deep,
dank
the wily,
smoky, lonesome dark
of this mental dungeon where I always seem to go.
How long before I
finally
just let
it
go?

Glosa — November PaD, day 18

Golly, this was a strenuous prompt: to write a “Glosa.” I have taken the description directly from the prompt:  ”This involves an epigram of 4 consecutive lines from a favorite poet that the challenge participant believes they can write successfully to. Then, write a poem consisting of four 10-line stanzas where the final line of each stanza is a line from the epigram, in order. Within each stanza, lines 6, 9 and 10 must rhyme.”

Complex, yes?

And I was traveling all day, to visit my son at Ft. Huachuca, so I did not get to this until late.

I took the last four lines of a poem by Maya Anjelou, Women Work.

***

From Woman Work
by Maya Angelou

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You’re all that I can call my own.

—

I want to run and just pretend
that I have suddenly become a child
again. I want to carelessly leave my
belongings scattered, and never turn off
a light. I want to stay out playing ‘til
dark, and pretend I cannot hear you cry
my name into the dew speckled darkness,
until I am too tired to play tag,
and, guilty, finally, tell my friends goodbye.
My day complete with sun, rain, curving sky.

I want to live that carefree life once more
To have my mother or father tuck me
safely into bed, checking carefully
for monsters underneath the springs or in
the closet, tinkling the hangars with
their frightful claws or teeth of sharpened bone.
I want the whole scenario, complete
with bedtime story and glass of water
and on to dreams of Neverland and mer-
maids, lost boys, mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

And then I want to waken when I want
with no alarms or overly-cheerful
morning show on the local radio
station. I want to wake when I am no
longer sleepy, to stretch, luxuriate.
To hop up out of bed as spry as though
I really were a child again, no aches
or stiffness. And to breakfast where I eat
a meal like a Norman Rockwell tableau,
and our faces beam like star shine, moon glow

I want to be that child again, if just
to more completely recall how it was,
to see my folks as their younger, joyful
selves, before the pain and anger and loss,
before the agony of the divorce,
before the love that we had known was flown.
Regret and loss aren’t all I have left,
You, memories, I have a few of you.
You, lost memories are what I bemoan
Yet you’re all that I can call my own.

 

Tradeoff – November PaD day 15

Tradeoff was the prompt today. I had to think a little while, but what jumped immediately to mind was what I ended up writing about, a common enough dilemma for a mom. When I was a young married, though, it never seemed the father had to make the same difficult decisions. I think (I hope) things are better now.

Silhouettes on a Stage, by EKDuncan

The Important Things Aren’t Things

Things I loved when I was young:
Singing
Dancing
Theater
Reading
Writing
And I was in plays, musicals,
whatever they had at the local
theater. I learned all aspects
from the acting and singing and performing
to the set construction, costuming and directing.

And then I had children.

The choice was to continue
the way I had been,
though that would have meant
a lot of time away from the little ones,
or to leave behind my first loves
to be with my children.

The choice was actually still painful,
even though I knew it was the right one.

Things I loved when I was a little older:
My kids
Singing (children’s songs)
Dancing (around the house with them)
Theater (puppets usually)
Reading (bedtime stories)
Writing (just for me)
And the loss of one kind of focus
was more than made up by focusing instead
on what was really important.

Things I love now that I’m done raising kids:
My kids
Singing (in a band)
Dancing (at weddings)
Theater (at the office)
Reading (as much as I like)
Writing (more than ever)

Totally worth it.

 

Someone Else

Someone Else

Don’t you wish you could be
someone else?
Someone you might have been
if you’d made different choices?

Perhaps I would have never married
and become the marine biologist
I once thought I would be.
I would spend my days on boats
and in labs
and in classrooms
and with the animals
and beside the sea.

Perhaps I would have waited to marry
and would just now be a mother,
rather than someone with
children grown.
I would be discovering all the little
things that make children so dear.

Or perhaps, if my choice had been different,
I would have different children
altogether.
I would be a mother of girls, maybe,
or more, or fewer
or none at all.

Perhaps my dreams of travel,
of living
and working
in foreign places
would have come more true.

Or perhaps,
just maybe,
I would really change
nothing at all,
realizing
changing it all would
make me lose the love I have
and the children I have
and the life I have
even if
I occasionally long
for
another life,
another me.